


Through the Fade, Darkly

by NorroenDyrd



Series: My Precious Heathen [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on deviantArt, Dragon Age Quest: Here Lies the Abyss, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fear, Fear Demons (Dragon Age), Fearlings, In the Fade, Mind Control, Mind Games, Nightmares, Originally Posted on deviantART, Post-All That Remains, The Blight (Dragon Age), The Fade, deviantART
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:55:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6186643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a group of six intrepid travellers makes its way through the Nightmare's realm, the demon takes great delight in pulling their strings and exploiting their deepest, darkest fears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through the Fade, Darkly

**Author's Note:**

> The story is also available on DeviantArt under the title Nightmare in the Fade:  
> http://fav.me/d9tureg
> 
> I wrote this for a fan fiction contest, bearing in mind that not everyone in the audience may be familiar with the Dragon Age universe. Hence the long character introductions.
> 
> If you like this story and are a member of the DeviantArt community, it would be lovely if you showed some appreciation for the accompanying illustrative piece, which was submitted by my teammate:
> 
> http://fav.me/d9twigs

The swollen, pale-brownish belly of the giant spider-like creature is shaken by a tremendous ripple, and the putrid growths along its body glint greasily in the dim green light, as it shifts its mountainous bulk heavily from side to side. The jagged, razor-sharp pincers draw apart, thick gooey threads stretching across the space between them, and then click hungrily: the prey is steadily approaching closer and closer, and with every step of the way, the creature has been growing more and more animated with the anticipation of a meal.  
  
Little wonder, really: this is the Fade, after all; the realm beyond the Veil, home of spirits and visions, where the souls of the living are drawn while the bodies that they inhabit are claimed by sleep, and where mages can travel to experience lucid dreams. In here, nothing retains a solid form for long, and morsels of tangible mortal flesh are precious few.  
  
The Nightmare passes his bony, long-fingered, clawed hand along the bulbous head of his gargantuan creation, and opens his gaping mouth in a predatory leer. His precious spider will not have to crave food for long now; soon, very soon, its pincers will sink into the warm, wriggling bodies of the interlopers from the mortal plane - once its master is done feasting on their minds.  
  
There are six of them; they leapt into the Nightmare's realm through a glowing tear in the fabric of their drab, unexciting reality, where the sky and the ground are firmly affixed to their places, and nothing can be moulded into a new form by a mere force of thought. That world, with its stringent laws of nature and familiar, never-changing surroundings, is left far behind now, and its six children are at the mercy of the most powerful demon in all of the Fade (if he does say so himself) - the one that can delve deep into their minds, and probe their memories, and unveil their hidden fears, making each and every one of their most dreaded night visions come to life before their very eyes.  
  
And this is what the Nightmare intends to do. The stubborn mortals press on, making their way further and further into his domain, on a laughably futile quest to ‘slay the beast’ and escape back to their world. They trudge up and down steep paths that cannot seem to decide in which direction they are supposed to lead, past unusually shaped cliffs and clouds of rock debris that float in mid-air, against the background of billowing jade clouds. And in the meanwhile, the Nightmare studies them, and ponders over which orders to give his servants so that they can give his guests a proper greeting. Like his pet creation, he is a spider, sitting, unseen but all-seeing, in the centre of a gigantic web that stretches far and wide across the Fade; and does he relish in all of the tugs and pulls at this web's strings!  
  
They make such delightful playthings, these wanderers, one and all! First, there is this male human with the wondrous handlebar moustache, the likes of which the Nightmare has rarely seen amongst mortals. It is written in his blood that he has undergone the ritual to join the legendary order of the Grey Wardens; he carries himself with the confidence of a seasoned warrior, and does not flinch in the face of the Nightmare's minions, which he has affectionately dubbed fearlings. They launch a sudden attack at the moustache-bearer from a dark corner, cutting him off from the five other intruders, and though initially overwhelmed, he continues to fight back, even after the Nightmare commands his servants to take on a shape that should rend the heart of any Warden.  
  
Upon surrounding their prey, the fearlings transform themselves into men and women that have succumbed to the darkspawn Taint: swaying, moaning, with milky-white, unseeing eyes, and with greyish-purple veins running like thick ropes beneath the thin layer of their glistening sallow skin, and with deep, raw gulleys crisscrossing their limbs in the places where they ripped at their own flesh, as it was devoured by an uncontrollable, burning itch.  
  
The sight affects the mortal; the Nightmare can sense it - but after the first jolt of his heart, the cornered warrior draws a deep, steadying breath, and cleaves through the tainted crowd with his jaw tense and his sword hand clasped tightly round the hilt of his weapon.  
  
Still, for all his fortitude, there is fear living in the mortal's heart - fear that his beloved order, which he once took great pride in serving, will now fall apart, vulnerable to the lies spread by its enemies, and there will be no-one left to stem the tide of the very Taint that he saw in the twisted faces of the creatures that accosted him. And this fear is like yet another thread in the demon's boundless web; all he has to do is to keep pulling at it - and the moustached mortal's bravery will unravel like a knitted scarf.  
  
It's a pity that he has felled so many of the fearlings, of course; those swift, precise strikes of his blade have left quite a mess in their wake, with jets of dark, oily blood squirting in all directions out of the gashes in the tainted flesh. But in the light of the Nightmare's grand scheme, it really does not matter: adorably gruesome as they are, these minions are quite expendable, and in due time, he will unleash another wave of them on the good Warden; whether he will be able to hold it off just as staunchly... well, that remains to be seen.  
  
Now, to move on to other specimens that are roaming through his realm.  
  
Engaged in combat not far from Ser Moustache, is another human - an archer in exquisitely crafted armour, tall, lean, and swarthy, with bristling auburn hair and intent green eyes. He rushed to his companion's aid when the fearlings sprung at him, but got side-tracked by having to brave an obstacle of his own.  
  
To deal with him, the servants of the demon did not even have to exercise much creativity: all they had to do, as they charged at him from all sides, was to reproduce the same shape over and over and over again. Each one of them has assumed the likeness of a middle-aged woman in a long, trailing wedding dress, fashioned out of elaborately embroidered fabric that was once white but has since turned into a faded shade of yellow.  
  
Well, it is not _a_ woman, exactly; it’s several women all at once. Long ago, lured out of the safety of their homes by a smiling stranger with a bouquet of white lilies, they were cut down, dismembered, and merged together anew, in a patchwork copy of their murderer's dead wife. A reanimated corpse, with bold black stitches holding together its body and its limbs, and linking its neck to its head. Oh, this head is a special work of art; the Nightmare is pleased to see that his fearlings have recreated every feature with admirable precision, from the sunken eyes to the bloated ashen lips and long silvery locks, combed into a coquettish hairstyle, fit for a bride.  
  
This head (the original, that is) was, uh, donated by the archer's mother - the last and crowning trophy of the lily-gifting madman's hunt; the victim that the hapless mortal could have saved, but did not. And this is why the Nightmare chose this particular image for his minions to recreate - with a most satisfying result! Petrified for a few moments, the archer gapes at the frozen features of the countless shambling corpses that stagger around him, as though attempting to start a slow, hypnotic dance; and the Nightmare can sense his prey's blood run cold. So cold that the mortal can no longer feel his own limbs - the poor, poor creature!  
  
The effect does not last long, however. When the stitched women press closer, their dance growing faster and their sewn-on hands dangling inches away from his face, the mortal breaks free of his horror-struck daze and whips out his bow from behind his back, unleashing a merciless volley of arrows.  
  
'Much as I love family reunions, Mother dearest,' he cries out after the first few shots, watching the undead women sink to their knees one by one, each pierced through the throat or eye with an abrupt squelch, 'This is overdoing it a little!'  
  
His voice is loud and bold, and his teeth flash a pearly white against his tanned skin. He laughs - but of course. As the Nightmare reads his memories, leafing through them hastily like through the pages of a book, he can see that this particular man is known for laughing in the face of danger. Why, he grinned and cracked jokes even as his own city was burning all around him!  
  
But no matter. The green-eyed rogue may struggle to appear light-hearted and carefree for as long as he likes; this shall never purge the fear that is festering within him. As he got reminded just now, his mother is gone, her lifeless husk used up to sate a madman's desperate desire - but there yet remain certain people that are of great importance to him, and he is terrified of losing them like he lost her. The Nightmare knows it, and it brings him one step closer to ultimate triumph.  
  
And one of these people is right here, fending off the incarnations of his fears, while his archer friend is busy puncturing holes in patchwork cadavers. He is a dwarf (though the bushy hair that usually grows abundantly on his kinsmen's chins seems to have migrated to his half-bared chest). His kind are, by nature, deprived of the ability to dream, and it is on extremely rare occasions that they wander into the reaches of the Fade. This one seems to have been cast into the dream world before, though; several times, in fact - quite a record for a Child of the Stone. Still, he is by no means close to getting used to the experience: the Nightmare can sense it within him, an uncomfortable feeling crawling underneath his skin like so many centipedes. Ah, what amusing twitches the dwarf makes when he tries to shake it off!  
  
He frowns and grunts and readjusts the aim of his crossbow - a massive, sophisticated contraption that is almost as big as his short, stocky self - and makes every shot count. With a loud, mechanic click, the small but deadly bolts fly forth, and almost each one hits its target. More minions gone to waste!.. But the Nightmare does not intend to let this minor frustration get the better of him. Here, in the Fade, the Child of Stone is just as easy for the demon to read as his companions; the Nightmare is quite confident that the fearlings the dwarf is fighting will weaken him, even if his bolts strike each of them in the heart.  
  
This time, the demon has instructed his servants to shift into the form of men and women in the clutches of Red Lyrium - the mind-warping crystalline poison that the dwarf's fool of a brother released into the surface world, after an expedition gone wrong. They look quite convincing, with large shards of purest red bursting from underneath their skin, making the air around them shimmer. The shards sing, too; they hum an incessant, droning melody - a song of sweet, fresh, ruby blood; a symphony of cracking bones and ripping tendons. The melody drives the creatures forward, but the dwarf manages to stem their tide, targeting the weakest points, where the flesh has not yet crystallized and is exposed to a well-timed crossbow shot. Eventually, just like the two humans, he manages to shake the fearlings off; and as he does so, he straps his weapon to his back, thrusts his hands deep into the pockets of his large leather coat, and declares, making a great effort to appear as brazen as possible,  
  
'I’m all done, Smiley! You have to work harder than this to scare me off!'  
  
Oh, but the Nightmare will work hard! Nay, he _is_ working hard! The little mortals did not come here entirely unprepared. They know whose plane they are traversing; they may guess what the Nightmare has in store for them - but they do not see what he sees. They do not see the tiny cracks that have begun to run deep across their trusted shield of bravery.  
  
These cracks are, at this very moment, tracing their way into the furthest depths of the dwarf's heart; the Nightmare knows it - for some of Lyrium-infused creatures that he set on him had very particular... countenances.  
  
They bore a certain resemblance to this mortal's family members. His father, who was cast out from the fiercely traditionalist, caste-based dwarven society, doomed to carry the burden of his dishonour for the rest of his miserable life. His mother, who never recovered from the family's fall from grace and completely dissolved her mind in the debilitating corrosive that is alcohol. And his brother, whose greed awakened a dark, ancient force that eventually turned him into a raving lunatic. These three people are chained to the hairy-chested hero by bonds of blood, bonds which may be ignored but can never be erased - and as the Nightmare took a plunge into the mortal's mind, he discovered a persistent thought that, one day, he might repeat their fate. Like father, like son. Like brother, like brother. Apples and trees. Thicker than water. These words haunt the poor dwarf, refusing to go away, and the demon will (most certainly!) not cease flaunting them before him. The dwarf recognized the three familiar figures among the throng of shape-shifting fearlings; he still shot them down without a moment's hesitation, but the seed of dread has been planted, and all the Nightmare has to do now is watch and wait.  
  
In the meanwhile, the mortal remains quite oblivious to the Nightmare's subtle scheming, and, seeing that his two companions have fought back their adversaries just as he did, turns to aid another of the six interlopers.  
  
This one is a woman, and she is, by far, not easier to crack than the three men that the Nightmare dealt with before her. Her mind is sharp like a flawless diamond, and just as hard to break. One thing the Nightmare can sense immediately, however, is that her memories abound with images of courtly splendour, which reigns supreme in the mortal kingdom of Orlais – the masked empire where elaborate intrigue has been honed into a fine art. And like her face was hidden behind a mask during soirées in high society, so are her fears. They remain concealed from view, almost entirely lost behind a resplendent façade; but not for long. The Nightmare will find a way to fracture even this perfect gem of a mortal, and grind her into dust.  
  
As a first step towards breaking his prey, the demon orders his minions to lure her away from the rest of the small wandering group, and to mould themselves into the dread abominations. For the woman is a mage, and abominations are what her kind turns into if they fail to resist the lures of the Fade and become possessed by demons. A very grizzly warning sign for one gifted with magic, to be sure.  
  
The fearlings do not disappoint. The Nightmare cannot hold back a cackle at the sight of their lumpy forms, with lop-sided faces that look like wax masks half-melted by fire, and gruesomely misshapen bodies that are bursting through what once were mage robes. They surround the woman, making low, feral growls, and lash at her with their rock-hard, scythe-like claws. She does not appear all too impressed by the display; curling her full, voluptuous lips in disdain, she makes a step back and raises her hands, which are cupped around a large, sizzling orb, woven out of thin rays of purple light, like a kind of large, electrified tumbleweed. After taking a fraction of a moment to charge up her magic, the woman releases the orb, letting it bounce from abomination to abomination, as though they were children gathered in a circle to play a ball game. Only unlike a ball, the magic blast marks its path with deep charred markings and the tangy smell of burning flesh.  
  
It is at this point that the dwarf runs up the path where the woman is standing, passing a few more of those enormous, greenish rock formations that are scattered all across the Nightmare's plane of the Fade.  
  
'Hey Vivienne! Iron Lady!' he cries out breathlessly, readying his crossbow. 'Need some help?'  
  
The woman turns her head to look at him, one impeccably trimmed eyebrow half-raised.  
  
'Thank you for your concern, my dear,' she replies coldly, 'But as you can see, I am doing very well on my own'.  
  
With that, she gestures towards the abominations, which have taken to stacking themselves at her feet, like a deck of dominoes after one piece has been removed.  
  
So she tells herself, yes - but is she really doing all that well? She disposed of her share of foes with great finesse - but looking into the faces of so many abominations opened up a tiny door within her flawlessly organized, closed-off mind. The Nightmare can see now - he can see what she is afraid of. She, who has devoted her whole life to accumulating power, to climbing the steep, slippery social ladder, to weaving her own little spider web, cannot help but wonder if she will be able to continue her efforts indefinitely.   
  
Will she manage to keep the diamond's sides from dulling, as the years roll by? Will she still carry herself with the grace and composure of a queen, turning heads beyond count with a fleeting smile and deciding whether someone is to live or die with a mere inclination of her head? Will she still have the strength that it takes to tap into the wellspring of magic that nature has generously supplied her with? Or will she prove herself weak and failing, just like those poor wretches that have allowed demons to take control over them?   
  
These are very important questions, _my dear,_ the demon leers to himself, imitating the woman's condescending manner of address. Ruminate on them for a while, will you? Let them eat at you; let them erode you like sea waves erode a cliff. And when you are done - you will be mine.  
  
There are two more mortals in this little gang of intruders, who have not yet had the pleasure of meeting the fearlings. They wanted to charge in and rescue their companions, but the demon commanded the path under their feet to reshape itself - and it obeyed, as is the way of the Fade. Before they could as much as bare their weapons, the two heroes found themselves facing a tall, steep wall of solid rock, which rose up in front of them in the twinkling of an eye, sending a low rumble rolling through the heart ground and knocking the mortals back. They have now scrambled to their feet, and are attempting to find a way around the wall, bickering as they do so.  
  
They are also very intriguing specimens, that blonde he-elf especially. Arryn Lavellan… Oh, this tattooed little mage could have volumes written about him - a random nobody, turned by sheer circumstance into the savior of the world and the leader of the Inquisition, an ever-growing organization that arrogantly thinks itself capable of besting demons like the great and powerful Nightmare. The human warrior woman he is currently snapping at is interesting to study as well; she is like a walking sweetmeat, with a soft, creamy, melting core that is hidden beneath a hard layer of principles and battle scars. The two of them are connected, though the Nightmare has trouble grasping why or how exactly; there is this feeling linking them... the exact term for it evades him at the moment. He guesses that it is some kind of notion that is embodied by other, far weaker beings residing in the Fade - like Hope or Compassion or something of the sort. Nonsense like that has never been his main domain - he feeds off fear and pain, not some visions of fluffy pink rabbits chasing butterflies. There is one thing that he can surmise from examining the mortals' bond, however: it will be more gratifying to torment them in a slightly different manner than the others.  
  
That is why he did not let his minions tease them with their shape-shifting: he has an entirely new game planned.  
  
***  
  
'Uh, Cassandra, I do not think the wall will just go away if you keep ramming at it with your shield,' Arryn remarks, peering at the warrior with his head cocked slightly to the side, as though he were a curious (and slightly disapproving) bird.  
  
The human growls in frustration, but does not fall back from the unyielding mass of rock, giving it a few more blows. The shield’s metal surface grinds against the green-streaked stone with an ear-splitting noise, but does not even leave a scratch on the obstacle. Finally, Cassandra puts it away and throws up her arms emphatically, crying out,  
  
'Where did this... thing even come from?!'  
  
'It's the Fade,' her elven companion explains calmly, as he comes up behind her and attempts to touch her arm comfortingly with his fingertips. 'The demon that rules here can remodel that landscape by just wishing it to change. Would be nifty if we got to fortify our keep at Skyhold this way, eh?'  
  
He pauses, and then adds, suddenly, his tone completely different,  
  
‘Why are you hiding your eyes from me?’  
  
A vein swells in the warrior’s neck. She gives the rock wall an infuriated kick and says through her teeth, shaking the elf off,  
  
‘I am not hiding anything!’  
  
‘If you aren’t,’ Arryn persists, making another attempt to touch her, only to have his hand brushed off her arm again, ‘Look at me’.  
  
Cassandra breathes heavily through her nose and, leaning forward, presses her forehead against the wall.  
  
‘Fine,’ she grumbles. ‘If you must know, I am… uncomfortable. I – I know how the Fade works, and I know that I should be prepared for anything; but – but… This is a place for spirits, not creatures of flesh and blood. It is just… wrong to be here while awake’.  
  
‘I know,’ the elf says, glancing over his shoulder at the cluster of rock shards that keeps bobbing up and down among the clouds. ‘But… You are not alone. Just – just saying’.  
  
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ the human snaps, finally bringing herself to look at him, her eyes narrowed and her eyebrows knitted together. ‘I will have you know that I do not need your protection! If you count the times when you saved me and I saved you, you will see that…’  
  
‘Wait – are you saying you keep a score?’ the elf interrupts, struggling to suppress a snicker. ‘Like a chart of some sort? A table with a column for “Arryn to the Rescue” and “Cassandra to the Rescue”? Oooh, and does it have little hearts around the borders?’   
  
The warrior lets out a loud, incoherent yelp and clenches her hands into fists, apparently ready to pound him into a pulp – but at this moment, the thunderous rumble repeats, and the mass of rock retracts into the ground, with such effortless ease that it might have as well been smeared in some greasy substance (which could actually be true, given the way its surface glistens in the green ambient light that pervades this entire realm like nauseating fog).   
  
Distracted from their snappy banter, the elf and the human gaze forward incredulously, groping in front of themselves to check whether the obstacle that was barring their way is truly gone. Presently, Arryn flexes his shoulders and takes a few steps forward, tapping at the ground every now and then with the tip of his mage staff.  
  
‘See?’ he says, as he turns back to Cassandra and motions her to follow him with a mock bow. ‘One moment, no wall; next moment – bam! Wall! And next moment – no wall again!’  
  
‘I told you: I know how the Fade works,’ Cassandra says stiffly.   
  
She does her utmost not to react to the elf’s antics – but she does not prove steadfast enough, and a tiny inkling of a smile does escape, tickling the corner of her mouth playfully. Hastily chasing it off, she clears her throat and adds, pointing vaguely somewhere to her left,  
  
‘As we were trapped behind the wall, I thought I could hear the sounds of fighting coming from there. We should head back to the others and see if they require aid’.  
  
‘Ah-ah-ah!’ the elf wags his finger warningly. ‘Remember, oh She-Who-Knows-How-The-Fade-Works: you can’t trust directions here! You _thought_ you could hear the rest of the gang beating up creepy crawlies to your left, but for all we know, they could actually be to your right, or somewhere up above, or beneath our feet! In that moment when we first landed here, I took a short walk across the sky, and that Warden Mustroud - I mean, Stroud - had to jump upwards to hit the ground! If we set out to look for the others, we will just get lost. Our best bet is this – ’  
  
He gestures broadly to the streak of bright emerald glow to his far right; unlike the rest of their surroundings, it appears to be almost static.  
  
‘The Rift. The gateway back to the waking word. No matter what over-the-top changes the demon tries to make in his realm, it will always be there. We should continue trying to get close to it, as we were before. The others will likely do the same, and at some point, our paths will cross’.  
  
Cassandra purses her lips.   
  
‘I cannot just walk away and leave them to the mercy of the… monster that rules over this place!’  
  
‘Nobody said anything about walking away!’ Arryn protests, beginning to sound slightly exasperated. ‘I am trying to stop you from making a fool of yourself by running blindly into nothingness with your sword raised and your eyes bulging!’  
  
‘So rescuing my allies is foolish, is it?’ Cassandra asks, her voice dangerously rising in pitch. ‘I should have joined the fray right at the beginning, but there was a wall blocking my path; now that it’s gone, I will not run from a fight again!’  
  
‘Oh fine!’ Arryn cries out in irritation, running his fingers through his pale-blonde hair. ‘Have it your way! Go left, if you want it so badly – but I will go right! Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you!’  
  
With that, he storms off, his fists clasped so tightly that he can feel the tips of his fingernails press into his skin. His pointed ears flare up a bright shade of scarlet – a symptom of what goes on inside his mind. Some snatches of his fierce debate with himself escape his lips: craning his head forward and clenching and unclenching his fists, he mutters under his breath,  
  
‘Gods, this is not like me… Not like us... Our fights never end like this… We laugh it off; we don’t sulk and walk away… Why _did_ I walk away?.. It’s wrong to leave her on her own; what if she - ? I have to – I have to turn back…’  
  
But he never does – and somewhere in the heart of the Fade’s web, a creature that subsists on fear jeers maliciously.  
  
***  
  
It does not take Cassandra long to realize that Arryn was right. After walking what appears to be a few yards, she hears voices a short way ahead of her; she even thinks she can recognize Vivienne, disarming the poor men with some sarcastic quip. Spurred on by her discovery, Cassandra quickens her pace – but then, the rocky path that she is following unexpectedly twists itself into an impossible loop, and when she attempts to follow its wild curves, she finds herself in a completely unfamiliar place, standing at the top of a tall cliff, which she definitely does not remember seeing before the rock wall suddenly decided to erect itself.   
  
The warrior slows down, tapping her fingers against her sword hilt in a habitual impatient gesture. Perhaps this _is_ going to prove a fool’s errand, after all – and perhaps she did look ridiculous and bulgy-eyed, marching off as she did. It brings her no pleasure to dwell on this, but she is mature enough to admit that she was wrong. It might be a good idea to backtrack and catch up with Arryn before she has strayed off too far. Only… it might turn out to be just a tiny bit difficult.  
  
As she swivels her head around, she realizes, her stomach contracting painfully, that the terrain has changed so drastically that it is no longer possible to determine which way she came from. She could have sworn that the patch of ground that she has just crossed was perfectly flat and smooth, like a polished slab of malachite; but now, as far as her eyes can see, there are enormous spikes rising up, imposing and tall, their top halves dissolving in the swirls of green mist. Carved in between their rows here and there, are narrow paths, which lead off into darkness, like entrances to an endless maze.   
  
She gets angry with herself after staring at them for a while – for she can feel a mounting surge of the discomforting feeling that first began brewing within her when their little team entered the Fade. It throbs inside her, squashing her stomach and rising up to her heart and lungs – so overpowering that she finds it hard to breathe.  
  
This is ridiculous! She is a Seeker of Truth, founder and faithful servant of the Inquisition, not some lost child afraid of the dark! She has to get a hold of herself! She can get out of this… predicament, if only she keeps her wits about her! For instance – she could come closer to the cliff’s edge and peer down, get a lay of the land (such as it is). Maybe she will spot Arryn, or her other companions, and figure out a way to get to them.  
  
Still giving herself a silent tongue-lashing for her panic fit, Cassandra makes a broad stride forward – and finds no foothold. The jutting rocky ledge has, without warning, shrunk quite considerably, and instead of stepping on firm ground, Cassandra suddenly becomes suspended in mid-air. The effect lasts for almost a quarter of a minute, in full accordance to the absurd rules of this realm; the human warrior has plenty of time to gape around her in confusion, and even tries to scramble hurriedly back towards the (relative) safety of the cliff. But, as it might well have been expected, the uncooperative hunk of otherworldly mineral keeps withdrawing further and further away from Cassandra, right until the point when the laws of nature finally kick in, and she plunges into a swift, nauseating fall, everything around her melting together into a huge, hazy smudge.  
  
After what might have been a few moments or a whole hour, the world falls back into place with a tremendous jolt – but, oddly enough, the impact of the fall is nowhere near as damaging as Cassandra thought it would be. Her body does not hurt any more than it would if she tripped over a root while… while trekking through a forest.   
  
She gasps loudly and lifts up her head, squinting as the rays on sunlight dance across her face. The ground underneath her outstretched hands is covered in soft, springy moss, and the air, though slightly damp, is pleasantly cool and fresh, and smells of pine needles. The sickly, oppressive confines of the demon’s realm have vanished completely, replaced by lush woodland, seemingly peaceful and harmless. Cassandra does not allow herself to lower her defenses just yet, however. Yes, the sounds and the colours and the textures of this idyllic nook seem enticingly genuine, but this could very well be some trickery, the reshaping of the Fade taken to the next level of cunning. But – but on the other hand… Could it be that, while falling from that cliff, she was drawn back into the Rift, and was transported to some remote corner of the waking world? In that case, she has to head out and see if any of her companions have been brought through as well.  
  
She pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dry pine needles of her knees, and sets on her way, wading through the undergrowth (which makes all manner of perfectly realistic rustling and crackling noises as she brushes past it). With no idea where she has landed, she decides to tackle her surroundings one step at a time. Firstly, it would be a good idea reach that gap between the trees in front of her – a blurry, yellowish-green stripe of light that could be a clearing… or a portal into yet another section of the Fade. As she moves forward, Cassandra pulls off one of her gauntlets, tucking it under her belt, and takes to passing her hand across every tree trunk that she passes. The bark feels as it should feel: hard and gnarled and warmed by the sun; once, she even feels a trickle of sap stick to the skin of her palm. She slows down and lifts her bared hand to her face, inhaling the poignant, resinous smell of the dense, slightly opalescent substance. Again, it seems real. So very real. There is very little room for doubt now – she _is_ back to the other side of the Veil. The thought makes Cassandra heave a sigh of relief. She really was out of her element… back there.  
  
Her musings are interrupted by a soft, rhythmic sound, like chanting, coming from somewhere beyond the trees and moving closer. Soon enough, the glowing gap between the pines is obscured by the outline of a tall figure in a sharp, pointed dark hood, of the kind that she has often seen on the so-called spellbinders from the Venatori cult – not the least formidable among the enemies of the Inquisition. The hooded figure glides out of view, the chanting never ceasing; then, another, similar silhouette follows in its wake; then, one more, and finally, a couple of heavier-set, armoured figures in large, grotesque beaked helmets: the so-called Ventori gladiators, enforcers to protect the spellbinders. They seem to be dragging something behind them – a sack, perhaps? It is rather hard to tell. But whatever these cultists are up to, they have to be stopped! And that – now _that_ is definitely Cassandra’s element.  
  
She flexes her shoulders and reaches for her sword – only to realize that it isn’t there. Instead of closing around the familiar honed metal, her tar-stained fingers touch nothing but thin air; and when she fumbles behind her back, her heart plummeting into what feels like a bottomless void, she discovers that her shield is gone too. Maker, how could this have happened?! Maybe – maybe her weapon was misplaced somehow when she fell off the cliff in the Fade? Oh, curse that demon and his machinations! She has left the borders of his domain – and yet he, once again, has succeeded in making her panic! No – no, she will not allow fear to get the better of her! Even without her weapon, she will still be perfectly capable of intercepting those cultists! She can use her abilities as a Seeker – and if that doesn’t work… she is surrounded by huge chunks of wood that could be turned into a club, for heaven’s sake!  
  
With a determined huff, Cassandra races forth to close the distance between herself and the Venatori; but it is not long before she stops in her tracks again.  
  
It turns out that the… object that the gladiators are carrying is not a sack, after all. It is Arryn, with his conscience apparently lulled to a stupor, his clothes torn, and a huge bruise darkening almost one half of his face. Maker’s blood, what have they done to him?! Oh, but she shouldn’t be asking this question, should she? She knows the answer perfectly well! While she was wandering around the Fade, like the clueless fool that she was, the cultists captured Arryn – and finally took out their ire on the audacious elf that foiled their plans so many times!   
  
The thought makes Cassandra’s heart perform another impossible plunge into nothingness, and she has to grab at the nearest tree branch of support, as the mossy ground seems to float away from beneath her feet. And what happens next only makes it spin even more of out control.  
  
Obeying a silent, commanding gesture of one of the spellbinders, the gladiators toss their burden down to the ground, right at the feet of the robed figures. As the elf thuds down into the grass, the same Venatori that motioned to the henchmen whisks his hand through the air, thin, ethereal threads of purplish light trailing from his fingertips. These threads twist themselves around Arryn’s wrists and ankles; one more swift, sweeping movement of the spellbinder’s hand – and they pull him up, a listless, obedient puppet, left at the cultist’s mercy.   
  
A wave of piercing cold rushing up her limbs, Cassandra stumbles a few more steps forward, her mind racing frantically, as she desperately searches for a way to interfere, to stop… whatever it is these… these hooded reprobates are trying to do with Arryn! She could charge in and distract them, or maybe drop something heavy on them, or…  
  
One the other spellbinders – the ones that are merely watching their ringleader lift the elf off the ground with magic – whirls around on his heels, so that his the blank, sightless oval of darkness underneath his hood faces the startled warrior in the bushes. Cassandra expects him to shoot a fire ball at her – but instead, he lifts his gloved hand slowly to his obscured face and presses his index finger to where his lips have to be, and lets out a soft, almost soothing ‘Shhh…’.  
  
This silken hiss is accompanied by another – that of roots and plant tendrils slithering across the ground, apparently having acquired a twisted conscience of their own at the Venatori’s command. A conscience that drives them to bind, and stifle, and suffocate. Before Cassandra knows it, she is pressed into a corner with her back against a tree trunk, her ribs nigh on cracking under the pressure of the hard, unrelenting, vine-like shackles. There is a root trailing across her face, too, stuffing its fuzzy, soily sprouts deep into her mouth, preventing her from crying out.   
  
With the intruder out of the way, the cultists can proceed. The leading spellbinder jerks his hand sideways, bending the elf’s arm at an unnatural angle, till his bone makes a sharp, dry crack, and the wrenched limb hangs limply at his side. The pain makes Arryn come to his senses, and he lifts his head to look at the Venatori, his chest rising and falling spasmodically.   
  
‘Inquisitor Lavellan…’ the cultist says, in a slow, growling voice, repeating his gesture to break the elf’s other arm. Then, he waits, completely unperturbed, until his victim has finished wheezing in pain, and goes on,  
  
‘You have been standing in our master’s way for far too long. Today, you shall be removed. Slowly’.  
  
Thrashing from side to side in her tethers, Cassandra gnashes her teeth against the roots in her mouth, trying to bite through them – but to no avail. She has been completely immobilized, and the only thing she is capable of is blink off dense, burning tears that keep obscuring her gaze every time the spellbinder tugs at the magical threads to make Arryn’s body twist itself in yet another unnatural way.  
  
Each of the elf’s hoarse, fitful screams sinks into her heart like a rod of red-hot iron; it is almost as if, by subjecting him to such unbearable pain, the Venatori is inflicting pain upon Cassandra as well. And, in a way, it is true – how could it not be, after all of their shared adventures, with him having her back and her having his; and after their ceaseless bickering, which, with time, lost all of its teeth and turned into a friendly sport. And of course, after he finally found the courage to step forward and ask her if they could be more than just friends, and she, blushing and flustered like a ditsy maiden from a romance novel, sent him on a quest for candles and flowers, which he completed… most admirably.  
  
After all of this, all they have been through together, one could say that Arryn has become… part of her. A part that has grown interwoven with her being more than she could ever imagine. A part that is now being torn to shreds before her very eyes, while she is compelled to do nothing but watch, bound and silenced and helpless. So very helpless.   
  
Dear Maker, this is a nightmare come to life!  
  
***  
  
Arryn blinks, utterly confused. What in the gods' name did just happen? One moment, he was pushing his way up some infuriatingly steep path in the Fade, scolding himself for being so curt to Cassandra - and the next, he suddenly stepped into Skyhold’s courtyard. Or what looks like Skyhold’s courtyard, anyway. That demon could make a wall spring out of nowhere - who is to say that he cannot make an entire fortress appear too, an exact copy of the actual, real Skyhold?  
  
'Let's see just how good you are at this,' Arryn mutters to himself, leaning down and scooping up a bit of mud from a moist patch of earth at his feet, apparently softened by recent rain and trampled over by countless soldiers, messengers, and merchants that come and go through the Inquisition’s keep every day.  
  
An inspection by almost all of his senses reveals that the mud is very... muddy. It looks like mud, it smells like mud - hey, it even tastes like mud! Yes, that is mud all right, Lavellan concludes, grinding the particles of wet earth with his teeth. Either the demon has done a stellar job at fooling him (which would land quite a blow to his mage pride), or he has actually reached the Rift and made it back home; without remembering a single thing, for some reason. This calls for a very thorough...  
  
'Hey there! Why are you eating mud?'  
  
Starting at the sound of a concerned female voice, the elf looks over his shoulder, and his widened eyes meet those of a friendly-looking dwarf with a face full of freckles.  
  
'Are you hungry?' she persists, standing on tiptoe to get a better look at Arryn. 'Gosh, you definitely look like you've been through a lot! Here, let me show you to our new recruits' quarters, and then take you to where we eat! My name is Harding, by the way, and - '   
  
‘Wait, wait, wait – slow down!’ Arryn swats at the air in front of himself, making the dwarf fall silent.  
  
He speaks loudly and hurriedly, trying to drown out the disquieted drumming of his heart. Something is wrong; very wrong. Harding knows him; they have been on friendly terms since the early days of the Inquisition – he even flirted with her a couple of times, long before he mustered the courage to woo Cassandra! And yet, the way she is looking at him now – it’s how she might look at a stranger.  
  
‘What do you mean – new recruits?’ he asks breathlessly. ‘You know I am not a new recruit!’  
  
‘You aren’t?’ Harding echoes, a slight flush spreading over her cheeks – which, somehow, no longer seem as densely covered in freckles as when the elf first laid eyes on her. ‘Sorry for that! I was just assuming you were a scout like me, because, you know… We have a lot of elven scouts? But – but that was not a very polite thing, now was it? Lumping all elves together? I – I apologize! So, what _do_ you do for the Inquisition? Are you a merchant? Or – or one of the refugees we took in?’  
  
Gods, she has to be joking! Staring at him so blankly, refusing to acknowledge who he is – it has to be a part of some stupid prank! But he has seen Harding prank people, like that poor professor from the University of Orlias; she has never been able to keep a straight face for _this_ long!  
  
Suddenly, his heart stops drumming, and instead, sinks deep into the pit of his stomach, till he can almost feel it slurping around in his gastric juices, or whatever the healers call them.  
  
‘I… I am the Inquisitor,’ he says, his voice hollow and hoarse.  
  
‘Hah!’ Harding cries out, slapping her thigh. ‘Good one! Since we don’t have an Inquisitor, why not make you one, eh?’  
  
‘What… What do you mean, you don’t have an Inquisitor?’ Arryn asks, his gastric-juice-soaked heart shrinking into a tiny, pulsing lump.  
  
What is going on here? Could stepping through the Rift have made him travel in time? That would not be the first instance for this to happen on his adventures! Could these events be taking place before he was named Inquisitor, before that whole ceremony with the speeches and the sword-raising and Cassandra almost-smiling at him? But – but that does not fit either! He got his title right after the Inquisition moved into Skyhold; the fortress was decrepit back then, almost falling apart – but when he was doing his mud-inspection, he could clearly see that the keep was perfectly fortified, as it should be! And – and once again: Harding _knows_ him. She knew him before he became Inquisitor. She should recognize him, dammit!  
  
But she does nothing of the sort, and chirps on, her expression indifferent as ever (and her face, once again, positively drowning in freckles),  
  
‘Well, maybe we did have one, reaaaaally long ago… But not any more. Nobody knows where he went – or was it a she? I don’t remember. I don’t think anyone does’.  
  
They don’t remember?! How – how can they _not remember_?! Maybe it was a side effect of wandering through the Fade for so long? Maybe he got erased from memory – everyone’s memory? But that would mean the same thing has happened to the others! Dear gods; curse that demon and his machinations!  
  
‘Do you…’ the elf asks slowly, dreading the reply that he might hear, ‘Do you remember a woman named Cassandra? And Vivienne? And a kinsman of yours, Varric? And Hawke – the Champion of Kirkwall? You know, tall, dark fellow, with green eyes and a snarky voice? And Moustroud – er, Stroud?’  
  
Harding nods energetically.  
  
‘Of course I do! As a matter of fact – Seeker Cassandra is right over there! You can talk to her if you like; but take care: she might hit you. Hard’.  
  
‘I know,’ Arryn mouths, turning away from Harding and racing to the place she pointed at – that make-shift practice area in the shade of the keep’s battlements, where Cassandra passes the time between missions by dismembering hapless straw dummies. She is there, leaning against the wall and drinking water from a flask, the remnants of yet another training prop lying shredded at her feet. She is there – and Harding remembers her!  
  
Hey, he says suddenly to himself, his heart shaking off the acrid gastric drops and soaring with new hope – hey! Perhaps the issue is with Harding, not him! Perhaps she was put under a spell or something? No; dwarves are resistant to magic. Unless it was Cole, their unpredictable spirit friend; his powers work even on dwarves. But he would never take away a memory that is not a source of pain to someone! And Arryn was not a source of pain for Harding – or was he? Oh, please, please, please, let Cassandra say something that would dispel his doubts!  
  
‘Cassandra!’ the elf calls out to the resting human, a jagged crack seeming to run under the surface of his voice. ‘Do – do you know who I am?’  
  
The warrior looks up at him; and her gaze, just like Harding’s, remains devoid of any spark of recognition.   
  
‘No, of course, I don’t!’ she says sharply. ‘Why should I? Did Varric put you up to this? I swear, one day that dwarf - ’  
  
She talks on and on, but Arryn’s mind no longer registers her words, as every sound around him is obscured by a stifled scream that is pounding against the inside of his chest. No; no, no, no!   
  
He still cannot guess how it happened – but it did. No-one remembers him. _She_ does not remember him. She who has, for so long, been his best friend, seeming to disapprove of his every step but coming to his aid precisely when he needs her; she who has captivated his heart, without him even noticing he has been hopelessly ensnared; she who has become a part of him. A treasured, irreplaceable part, which has now been cruelly torn away.   
  
Ever since he was a small boy, who had just come into his magic and was (to his utter delight) called ‘special’ by the Keeper of his elven clan – he has dreamt of leaving a mark upon this world. To do something that would make people across all lands say the name ‘Arryn Lavellan’ with awe and reverence. And when he became Inquisitor, that dream seemed to have finally come true. He felt so important, leading an army of heroes to combat the evils of this world; so needed, so – so happy. But now, for whatever reason, he has faded into obscurity. Nobody cares about him; nobody remembers him – not even the woman who smiled at him as he wrapped his arms around her, so soft and warm out of her armour, and whispered that he loved her. He has been forgotten.  
  
By the stars, this is a nightmare come to life!  
  
Slowly, no longer able to bear Cassandra’s indifferent gaze, Arryn sinks to his knees, burying his face in his muddied hands. Somewhere far, far away, in a plane beyond the heavy slabs of ice that seem to be pressing down on him, a sound of footsteps is heard, and then a voice, saying,  
  
‘Seeker? Is this elf bothering you? He… He did not seem quite all right. Talked about the Inquisi-person – you know, the one we forgot?’  
  
This is Harding again; she must have come closer while Arryn was not looking. Something about what she says seems suspicious to him, though he cannot quite put his finger on it; he lowers his hands and looks up, staring right into the dwarf’s face – and then, rolls back his head and chokes on a loud, almost hysterical burst of laughter.  
  
‘Yes!’ he sings as he whirls to his feet, with the same fervour as he was silently chanting ‘No!’ not too long ago. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’  
  
‘What’s the matter?’ Harding asks, taken aback.  
  
‘Your freckles!’ Arryn blurts out between hiccups, pointing at the dwarf’s face. ‘Your freckles! They are almost gone again!’  
  
Harding gropes her cheeks in confusion, batting her eyes rapidly.  
  
‘I don’t understand!’  
  
‘But of course you do!’ Arryn pants, quivering all over with feverish excitement. ‘Oh, you understand perfectly well! Just as your master understands!’  
  
‘My… My master?’ Harding echoes.  
  
‘Yes! Your master!’  the elf repeats, rubbing his hands together until a spark of mage fire appears between his palms. ‘A.k.a. the fear demon, or whatever he calls himself! Oh, but I am a genius! You see, when I was little, the Keeper of my clan told me this story about a wise old healer who helped some scholars trapped by a demon in the Fade. They thought they were inside a library, so he ordered each of them to take an identical book – a tome by Brother Genitivi or something – and read out the first word from a given page! And for each of them, the word was different – because the demon recreated their surroundings by reading their minds and studying their memories, and none of them remembered what exactly was written on that particular page! The scholars realized they were dreaming, and broke free! And I am dreaming as well – as each time I look at you, “Harding”, I see a different pattern of freckles! Friendly as you are, flirtatious and charming as I am, we never got to know each other too closely – so I have no exact memories of your freckles! _That_ is where you master slipped! I have to give him credit, though – he almost had me fooled! He was so, so painfully correct in guessing my worst fear – the fear of being forgotten!’  
  
Arryn chants his last words like a triumphant battle cry – and as he finishes speaking, he slams his flame-gloved hands into scout Harding’s chest. With a shattering shriek, the dwarf wriggles in the elf’s fiery grasp, and her pretty, likeable visage melts away, oozing down like trickles of paint – and exposes an entirely different form, repulsively grotesque, with disproportionately long, thin limbs, a tiny head strewn with countless beady eyes, and a gaping mouth with razor-sharp teeth that takes up the creature’s entire torso.  
  
The being attempts to fight back, spitting and clawing at Arryn’s limbs – but he does not flinch, continuing to cast his flaming spell until the false Harding dissolves into a wisp of green smoke. And when the creature is gone, so is the Skyhold courtyard, mud and all. One by one, every stone in the ramparts, every plank of wood in the tavern’s walls, every twig and every grass blade peels off, exposing the jutting rocks and the clouds of green mist that Arryn left behind what feels like an eternity ago.  
  
Grinning smugly at his own brilliance, Arryn turns around to look at the place where Cassandra stood, expecting her to morph into a monster as well – but instead, with a staggering, scorching pang, he sees that she is still there, motionless as a statue, with her face twisted into a pained expression, her lips twitching and bleeding where she must have bit into them, and her eyes rolled up so that only their whites can be seen. And surrounding her, are several figures, clad in flowing rags, which seem to be made out of flakes of dark ash; their necks and heads are impossibly elongated, and each of them has a single, giant, glowing purple eye, which bores straight into Cassandra’s pallid face. These… things must be tormenting her, just as Arryn was tormented; but he cannot see what she is seeing, and thus cannot help her shake off the demon’s spell. But still – he has to help her! He has to free her, somehow! Wait… The elf frowns, recalling the powerful burst of magic that he felt when he announced his fear to the fake Harding; and then, suddenly, also remembers how the wall drew back when Cassandra admitted that she was feeling out of place. Maybe – maybe that will help!  
  
Pressing his hand against his chest to calm his thrashing heart, he takes a hurried, gulping breath, and calls out,   
  
‘Cassandra! If you can hear me – tell me what you are afraid of! Tell me your greatest fear – don’t hold it back! Don’t hesitate! I can help you!’  
  
It is probably a very foolish thing to do, yelling like that into nothingness – but he has always been quite a fool whenever this woman is involved. Of course, the ashen shades are the first to hear him; one by one, they turn their heads and begin advancing at Arryn, who hastily begins to cast an ice spell, intending to cast the creatures into confining icy shackles and immobilize them while he readies another, more powerful blast of magic with the help of his staff. But before he can set the icy gust loose, the petrified human jerks her head, tears apart her parched lips, and mouths a single word,  
  
‘Helplessness…’  
  
As she does so, her whole body is shaken by what looks like some sort of seizure; her eyes roll back, wide-open and reddened, with tears welling up with them, and with a prolonged, rasping breath, she drops to one knee, fumbling instinctively for her sword. When she realizes that her trusted weapon is still strapped to her side, she lets out a choking caw (which might actually be a gleeful laugh) and, whipping back to her feet, charges at the shades.   
  
The creatures shriek and scatter, attempting to escape the heavy swings of the human’s blade – but almost each one of them meets its doom at the hands of the elven mage, who whirls around on the spot with his staff as though he were tap-dancing, accompanying his little performance with flying ice shards and jets of flame.  
  
‘Show-off,’ Cassandra says, not unkindly, as she digs her sword deep into the back of one of the retreating shades.  
  
‘And that’s why you love me so much!’ Arryn retorts light-heartedly, chaining another wraith in ice before it can twist its ashen arms around the warrior from behind and strangle her.  
  
Cassandra says nothing, but when the last of the shades is vanquished, crumbling away into a small mound of dust, she comes up to the elf and, without a word of warning, draws him close to her in a tight embrace.  
  
‘You were right, Arryn,’ she says quietly, ‘I am not alone’.  
  
***  
  
The spider clicks its pincers yet again, its gnarly, clawed legs digging into the ground. But this time, the Nightmare pays his pet no heed. He is far, far too preoccupied: the web that he has spun, so carefully, so meticulously, is rapidly tearing apart – all because of that cursed elf! Of course, he himself is partly to blame: he got too complacent, too certain of his triumph over each and every one of the six mortals – and that led to sloppiness. He put so much effort into creating convincing tree sap and mud that the mask one of his underlings was to wear got neglected! He should have done something about those freckles – he should have!.. And now, because of this trifle, his subtle plan is coming apart before his very eyes!  
  
The elf has discovered a source of strength – a way to mend the crack in the shield of bravery. He has shared it with the human, and he is now sharing it with the others! The Nightmare did his utmost to prevent Arryn and Cassandra from crossing paths with the rest of the interloping expedition, raising more and more obstacles to bar their progress; but somehow, none of the walls he had erected lasted for too long. It is that connection between them, playing its part again – he was planning to use it to render them powerless, but instead they have taken to wielding it like a weapon to fight him off!   
  
And now, here they are. Reunited with their companions, who did follow the light of the Rift, just as the elf predicted, bellowing their lost companions’ names now and again, much to the Nightmare’s malicious delight… until the two insolent creatures escaped their trap, that is.   
  
The little group is now standing on the shore of an enormous body of greenish water (there are those in the Fade as well, though even the spirits themselves know not where the water comes from), looking down at a row of gravestones, with their names etched into each. These large grey slabs rose up unexpectedly out of the ground, just before the elf and the human caught up with the others; all of them are blank, save for each respective name - except for two. One of these particular gravestones is marked with the words, ‘Arryn Lavellan – Being Forgotten’; and another with, ‘Cassandra Pentaghast – Helplessness’.  
  
‘What do you suppose it means?’ Varric the dwarf asks. ‘Maker’s hairy bollocks, these things scared the piss out of us when they first popped up! We thought we were going to die – and that you two were dead already!’  
  
‘On the contrary,’ Arryn grins, leaning against the stone with his name as though posing for a picture. ‘We just saved ourselves!’  
  
And then, he explains. He explains it all; he urges his companions to bare the wounds that the fight with the fearlings inflicted on them. They seem reluctant at first, the proud, gem-like Vivienne especially; this gives the Nightmare at least some hope of success, for he has studied mortals enough to know they would rather die than confide their deep, dark fears into someone. But gradually, as the elf recounts his adventure, his words seem to take effect. The dwarf is the first to agree to follow his advice; he takes a broad, bold step towards the slab reserved for him, and declares solemnly,  
  
‘My greatest fear is… becoming like my parents’.  
  
And the moment he utters these words, they carve themselves into the stone underneath his name. The wound is exposed – and now that the other mortals know about it, they may just be foolish enough to attempt to heal it… and just lucky enough to succeed.  
  
As he hears his friend make his confession, the perpetual snide grin fades away from Hawke’s face. His expression grows solemn, and he lays his hand on the dwarf’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture. Then, he half-closes his bright-green eyes and continues the chain of revelations,  
  
‘I… I am afraid of loneliness’.  
  
Just as it happened with the dwarf’s tombstone, Hawke’s is changed as well; and in due time, so are the remaining two, where the inscriptions now read,  
  
‘Jean-Marc Stroud – Failure’ and ‘Vivienne – Irrelevance’ (oh, that human pondered long and hard before confessing to her fear in the most diplomatic way… and it seems that she found just the right word for it).  
  
As the Nightmare can sense, the initial embarrassment that follows this little exchange of secrets is soon replaced by relief, and confidence. The seeds planted by the fearlings are withering, and the mortals are able to breathe freely again. The shield is mended, ready to serve its purpose once more.  
  
And the Nightmare is afraid.

**Author's Note:**

> Certain liberties were taken with the Nightmare's mind games and the graveyard in the Fade.  
> The story about the healer and the scholars is reference to the Last Christmas episode of Doctor Who.


End file.
